Now that I have a less than a week in my pueblo before swearing in and moving north, I’m getting a little nostalgic. Part of it is the fabulous weather, sunny and warm with constant breezes. This is winter in Nicaragua and it’s a pleasure to walk around in it. Last week I was assigned by my language facilitator to interview a resident of the pueblo about how life was 40 years ago in this town. I visited Dona Petrona, my host mom’s older sister. Dona Petrona was a safe interviewee, having hosted twenty-some volunteers herself. She knows how to slow down for us. The interview consisted of several questions, but after the first few, Dona Petrona wanted to talk about her life with the volunteers and in particular how sad she was when each volunteer left her house. This is a lady muy carinosa and her heart breaks when she loses a volunteer, so much so that she takes to her bed for a few days until she recovers. She told me a story about a black volunteer who lived with her and then moved on to her site. The volunteer called Dona Petrona in tears because her new host mom rejected her because of the color of her skin. Dona Petrona reminded the volunteer of a song she had sung to her during her training about an angel with black skin who was taken up to heaven. The volunteer hadn’t understood the song at the time, but when Dpna Petrona sang it for her again over the phone, the volunteered cried and thanked Petrona for reminding her of the song. I was happily diverted from my interview by these stories and had to return the next day to finish up.
When I got there Dona Petrona had some fabulous, truly amazing sorbete for me, some fruit flavor and a real treat. We finished the interview and I was asking her about the various barrios around my pueblo. I’ve always wondered who lives there. Petrona offered to show me the next day. I showed up on Wednesday and we started to walk out of town. The paved roads changed to dirt as we came to the first of two barrios. In both there was a greater population of the poor than in the pueblo. We passed many house with dirt floors, outside kitchens with wood fires, children playing outside in the dirt. But we also passed some neat little family compounds consisting of a house and several reed or stick out-buildings roofed with thatch. At one someone called out to Petrona to come in. We did and a toothless woman named Consuela gave me a big hug as did her husband, a very old and leathery looking man named something Angelo. It’s normal to hug on first contact in Nicaragua but I still am a bit awkward with this but should’t be at my age. Three generations live in this compound all cooking and eating together and taking care of each other. This is what happens in Nicaragua. Thje family is always there if you get sick or lose your job or need any kind of help. I met Consuela’s daughter making tortillas on the outside wood fire stove.
The best thing is to walk with someone like Dona Petrona. She knows everyone and in between houses she tells me their stories. We came upon 4 or five children—about 7 years of age—playing in the road. Two little boys were building a kite from sticks and plastic bags. Petrona stopped to talk to the two little girls. It seems she heard one of them use a bad word. In the nicest possible way she told them that such words were not good for them This was because the words were ugly and the girls were so beautiful. The girls ducked their heads and giggled, but Petrona kept talking. They knew she meant it. She is privileged to correct other people’s children. He stature, this culture, bestows the privilege.
I saw so much on our hour walk. I heard PC say we should get people to walk around with us in our site, but didn’t get it until I saw it in action. I get stuck on my norteamericano values—how would you ever ask someone to walk you around town in the U. S. But I thinks it’s a kind of honor to be asked, acknowledgement to the person asked that s/he has importance. And there is nothing like being introduced by an insider. It’s a win/win. I’ll do it right away and often in my new site.
Anyway, my days with Dona Petrona made me nostalgic for my pueblo. How many other great people would I have met had I not been embarrassed of my poor Spanish and studying all the time? My host mom and I are comadres, language notwithstanding. We will miss each other. I am easy to be around. I know how to disappear when needed. I think I was easy for my family to live with. I’ll miss my host dad, too with his jokes and willingness to try to explain as simply as possible complicated subjects like the influence of world debt on labor in Nicaragua. I had a great time here. And it’s clear I can come back for a visit any time I want.
My Pueblo, Revisited
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